Mouse Trap
by Seraph2
Summary: A young Brooklynite joins the ranks of the Manhattan newsies, only to be lost the next day. Will the newsies ever find their "little brother" again?
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: All of the newsies belong to Disney. The plot, Mouse, Mr. Buresh, and the "rich lady" belong to me.  
  
Chapter One  
  
We were in the middle of a poker game when Spot arrived at the lodging house.  
  
"I need to talk to you, Jacky-boy," he announced, "now."  
  
"Just a minute, Spot," I replied distractedly. "I'm in the middle of a game."  
  
Spot wandered around the table, finally stopping directly behind Racetrack, who sat absolutely still. Nothing could distract Racetrack from a poker game. "Race has four aces," Spot mused. He moved one spot over, now staring at my cards. "And you have two eights," he proclaimed to the rest of the table. "Which means that you will lose, so it's pointless of you to keep playing."  
  
I shrugged and threw my cards facedown on the table, knowing full well that if Spot had been in my situation, with my hand, he would have played to the end. Together, Spot and I climbed the rickety lodging house stairs to the deserted bunkroom. I didn't bother to ask Spot what was going on; I knew that he would tell me promptly.  
  
"I found something when I was out selling today, Jacky-boy," he said. Again, I waited without asking, although my mind was racing. Spot was not the type of person who would find a quarter in the gutter and walk all the way to Manhattan just to brag that he, as usual, had made more money than I had.  
  
"I'll give you three guesses what it was," Spot continued.  
  
"A dollar, a girl, or a porcelain tub with boiling water," I quipped.  
  
"Ha, ha, Jacky-boy," Spot said dryly. "I found a kid."  
  
"Your own?" I wondered.  
  
"No," Spot replied vehemently. "I don't have any children."  
  
"Amazing, what with all the girls you've slept with," I muttered.  
  
"Jack, the kid's five years old," Spot said, ignoring my comment.  
  
"Does he have parents?"  
  
"He won't tell me."  
  
"Did you take him to an orphanage?" I asked, already knowing what the answer would be. For some unknown, reason, Spot despises orphanages.  
  
"No. He's at the Brooklyn lodge."  
  
"Well, congratulations, Spot, ya got yourself a new newsie," I said. "What are ya telling me for?'  
  
"Jack, he's too young to stay in Brooklyn," Spot explained. "He's barely big enough to hold a slingshot!"  
  
"Well, he's not coming to Manhattan, Conlon," I decided firmly. "There's no room for him. Snitch and Itey already have to share a bed."  
  
"Do you really think they mind?" Spot asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.  
  
"Yes," I replied, although in truth I wasn't sure. "You know Snitch has a girlfriend."  
  
"Oh, and have you ever actually met her?" Spot pointed out. "I mean, c'mon Jack, the guy's fifteen and he still sucks his thumb!"  
  
I rolled my eyes. "I still say the kid's not coming to Manhattan."  
  
"What am I supposed to do, Jack?' Spot asked. "He'll get killed in Brooklyn. He'll get killed even faster if I send him somewhere like Harlem or the Barrier. At least you or Race or someone will watch out for him in Manhattan."  
  
"Watch out for who?" Race asked, walking innocently into the bunkroom. "Oh, heya, Spot, thanks for ruining the poker game for me."  
  
"Any time, Race," Spot said amiably. "Hey, how would you like someone new in Manhattan to play poker with?"  
  
"Is he any good?" Race queried, his eyes lighting up at the mere thought of yet another inexperienced newsie to squander money from.  
  
"He's five years old, and he's not coming to Manhattan," I said emphatically, gritting my teeth. Spot just never gave up.  
  
"Jack, what do you have against new newsies?' Race asked. "You didn't mind when David and Les came."  
  
"We didn't have to fit David and Les into the lodging house!" I said, exasperated.  
  
"So tell Kloppman to get another bunk," Race suggested. "There wasn't much room at the lodge when you came, either, but Chips let you stay." I winced at that comment. Race was one of the few newsies who had lived in the Manhattan lodge before I had, and both of us remembered the kindness and generosity of Chips, our former leader.  
  
"Will you teach him how to sell?" I asked, my steadfast mindset already crumbling.  
  
"Sure," Race agreed, reaching for the box on his bedside table. Finding it empty, he lifted up Snipeshooter's mattress and dug underneath it for a few moments. With a small exclamation of joy, he pulled out two slightly squashed cigars, tossing one to Spot and lighting the other for himself.  
  
"All right," I said, sticking one hand under the mattress to grab a cigar of my own. "He can stay in Manhattan."  
  
"Thanks, Jacky-boy," Spot said, jumping up and holding his hand out to me. I spit in my palm and we shook, sealing the agreement. "I knew I could convince ya." 


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: I already have this story completely written (yay!), and it's four chapters long. I know that's kind of short, but I wrote it when I stayed at my grandparents' house for a week because I was bored. Anyways, enjoy and review!  
  
To Sapphy: Thanks for the review! I always thought it was weird that Spot wanted a tub with boiling water (Jack's the one with greasy hair), so I just had to work it into a story somewhere! :-) And I love Race too! Everyone should love Race! BTW, your accent is awesome---I live in the Midwest, so it reminds me of how people talk around here. Again, thanks for the review!  
  
Chapter Two  
  
The next day, just as we were all sitting down to our meager suppers of Cokes and cold sandwiches, Spot strolled into Tibby's with a small, dark-haired boy trailing behind him like a shadow. The boy continued to cower behind Spot as he approached my booth. David, Les, Boots, Crutchy, and I were all squished into it, discussing the "improvements" we'd made to the day's headlines. Nearby, Racetrack, Kid Blink, and Mush encircled a small table. They were already engrossed in a poker game, their suppers forgotten. Various other Manhattan newsies sat around the restaurant, eating, playing cards, or just enjoying a chance to talk to their friends and rest their sore feet. Spot dragged two chairs over to the booth, falling gracefully into one, much as a king would sprawl on top of his throne. Apprehensively, the child sat in the other one, sandwiched between Spot and myself.  
  
Now that I saw the child in full light, I could understand why Spot had taken him off the streets and into the lodge. He was emaciated, skin clinging to his bones, inkblot eyes like dark sockets in his skeletal face. He had a shock of coarse black hair, uncombed and falling into his eyes. His terror was obvious; the boy sunk back into his chair, gripping the edges with white knuckles.  
  
"Hey, I'm Jack Kelly," I said, trying to keep my voice soft and quiet, so as not to scare the poor kid. "What's your name?" The child's only response was a shrug---either that or he was trembling so violently that his shoulders shook.  
  
"We've been calling him Mouse, 'cause he's as quiet as one," Spot volunteered.  
  
"Okay," I agreed. "Mouse, this is David and Les Jacobs---they're my selling partners---Boots, and Crutchy."  
  
"Heya, Mouse," Crutchy said cheerfully, "your bunk's right next to mine!" At this announcement, the faintest hint of a smile crept on to Mouse's face. Crutchy's cheerful demeanor must have eased some of the boy's anxiety.  
  
"I'm gonna head back to Brooklyn now," Spot decided, standing and sliding his chair into its original home at a nearby table. "See you around, Mouse." With that, the King of Brooklyn sidled out of Tibby's, leaving us with a tense, trembling, five-year-old boy.  
  
"So, Mouse, d'ya want something to eat?" I asked. The kid definitely needed to get some meat on his bones. At first, he nodded vehemently, but then the nods slowed to a reluctant shaking of his head. "Not enough money?" I guessed, careful to keep my voice low. Although all of us live in poverty, none like to admit that they can't afford a simple meal at Tibby's. "Don't worry, I'll pay," I assured him. "What do you want?" Mouse pointed to David's hamburger.  
  
"Here, just have the rest of mine," David offered, sliding the plate across the table to Mouse. "I'm sure Mama will have something for me to eat at home." Mouse eagerly accepted the hamburger, taking a large bite and chewing happily. In only five bites, the hamburger was gone, followed by a large portion of David's Coke.  
  
"You're one hungry kid," I said, chuckling at the child's enormous appetite. "Well, I'm going to take Mouse back to the lodge with me. Anyone else want to come?" I didn't expect any of the newsies to accept the offer, it being only 6:30 in the evening, too early even for David and Les to return home. To my surprise, Racetrack finished up his poker and followed Mouse and me out of Tibby's.  
  
"So, Mouse, have you ever sold papes before?" Race asked as we strolled through the crowded Manhattan streets. Mouse shook his head "no", staring up at Race, who, compared to Mouse, looked like a giant. Gosh, even Spot had seemed big when he walked into the restaurant with Mouse behind him. "Well, I'm gonna teach you how tomorrow," Race said. He glanced at me over Mouse's head, hopefully mouthing the word "tracks." Now it was my turn to give a negative shake of the head. The last thing I needed was a penniless, gambling-addicted, five-year-old on my hands. "I suppose we can find somewhere near the distribution center to sell," Race muttered grudgingly.  
  
The three of us reached the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House a few minutes later. "This is where you'll sleep," I explained to Mouse, leading him toward Kloppman's desk. "Every night, you have to sign in and pay five cents. I'll pay for you tonight," I added quickly, before Mouse could begin to worry about where tonight's fee would come from. "Can you sign your name?" I asked, and Mouse nodded happily. I opened Kloppman's battered leather ledger and handed Mouse a dull lead pencil. He stood on his tiptoes to reach the desk, where he printed his name in proud, albeit shaky, capitols: "MOUS". I added the last letter myself, then scribbled my own name under Mouse's and dropped two nickels into Kloppman's money box. Race led the way upstairs to the bunkroom, and I chose not to comment on the fact that he had neither signed in nor paid.  
  
"Here's your bunk," Race said, pointing to the newly installed bunk bed. Snitch and I had rifled through the lodging house closets after lunch today, finally finding a pair of thin blankets and a few well-worn sheets. Snitch had gotten half, for he would now be using the new top bunk instead of sharing with Itey or whichever other newsies were sleeping deeply enough not to notice a gangly fifteen-year-old boy crawling into their bed. I had used the other blanket and the remainder of the sheets to make a bed for Mouse, and now he clambered on top of it eagerly. His hole-filled, oversized shoes still attached to his feet, Mouse slid under the blanket and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, soft snores filled the room.  
  
"Well, now that the kid's asleep, d'ya wanna go back to Tibby's?" Race suggested.  
  
"We can't leave him by himself!" I said adamantly. "What if he wakes up and no one's here?"  
  
"All right," Race said resignedly, sinking onto his own bunk. Habitually, he reached for a cigar and lit it, then grabbed the pack of cards that could always be found on his bedside table. "Ya wanna play poker?" 


	3. Chapter Three

To Sapphy: I'm from Iowa...the land of the corn. Yes, you can have Mouse as soon as I get done with the story. And Race always got stuck watching Les in the movie, so I thought he'd be good with Mouse. Thanks for the review!  
  
Chapter Three  
  
"Get up! Get up! Skittery! Boots! Bumlets! Come on, it's time to get up!" Kloppman stomped his way through the bunkroom, slapping playfully at the tired newsies and shouting especially loudly as he walked by my bunk. Eventually we all woke up, groggy and sleep-deprived by late-night poker games, as Racetrack and Snipeshooter had yet another battle over Racetrack's precious cigars.  
  
"Hey, Jack, ya wanna come over here?' Crutchy called, staring at the bunk next to his own.  
  
"Sure. Why?"  
  
"Mouse won't wake up," Crutchy announced. I stumbled to the other side of the bunkroom where Mouse was lying, eyes tightly shut, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him.  
  
"Mouse! Mouse! MOUSE!" I shouted, lowering my mouth close to his ear. Slowly, his eyes flickered open, and he sat up in bed, staring at the motley band of teenage boys that were the Manhattan newsies. To him, I'm sure, their loud laughter and arguments were as fearsome as the war whoops of a wild army, and, for a moment, I had doubts about how well he would survive on the bustling Manhattan streets. My uncertainties disappeared, however, when Mouse tossed off his covers, stood up, and walked bravely across the bunkroom and over the threshold of the washroom.  
  
It was with this same resolute courage that Mouse followed the pack of singing, shouting newsies from the lodging house to the distribution center. When we reached the front of the line, I handed Mouse a dime and gave him a soft push forward. "Just ask the man for twenty papes," I instructed.  
  
Mouse walked timidly up to Mr. Buresh's desk (Mr. Buresh replaced Weasel after the strike). Setting the dime on the counter, he held up all ten fingers once, then closed his hands into fists, then opened them wide again. Mr. Buresh chuckled and reached behind his desk, grabbing a stack of papers. "Twenty papes!" he announced, and Mouse beamed. He pulled the papes into his arms, almost toppling over from their weight, and staggered back to me.  
  
"Good job, kid," I said with a smile, ruffling his hair with my hand and slapping a fifty-cent piece on the desk. "Hundred papes." I grabbed the stack, thanked Mr. Buresh, and led Mouse down the rickety wooden steps of the distribution office. Racetrack, David, and Les followed, Race toting fifty papes, David with a hundred, and Les brandishing his wooden sword. He never bought his own papes; he just helped David and me sell. I had thought about letting Mouse do that for Racetrack, but then realized that, unlike David and Les, Mouse and Race didn't have an unbreakable family bond, and that one day Racetrack would leave his life as a newsie and Mouse would be without a selling partner. It was better to start his career independent than to absorb the loss of a partner later in life.  
  
"There's a good selling spot near here," Race commented, shading his eyes against the blazing summer sun, already climbing high in the Eastern sky. "I thought Mouse and I could go there."  
  
"Sure," I agreed, already staring at the crowd, scouting out potential buyers. "Davey and Les and I will probably head for the wrestling area. There's usually a good crowd there." With these words, the five of us split into two groups and headed off to our respective selling spots, Racetrack already imparting vital newsie information to Mouse, such as how to improve headlines and avoid the bulls.  
  
It seemed like they were getting off to a great start, so you can imagine my shock when, a few hours later, Racetrack came sprinting into the wrestling area, almost knocking over a number of my customers and a nearby food vendor.  
  
"What's you hurry, Race?" I asked. As an afterthought, I added. "Where's Mouse?"  
  
Racetrack took a deep breath, his face red from exertion. "He's gone, Jack," he said, his voice filled with panic and dismay. "He sold nineteen of his papes real fast---you know how people buy from cute little kids---and then he was selling his last pape to some rich lady, and I turned around for just a second, and he was gone! I spent half an hour looking for him, and then I thought that maybe he tried to find you, so I ran over here. You haven't seen him, have ya?"  
  
I shook my head miserably, picturing myself telling Crutchy and the other Manhattan newsies that we had lost their new "little brother".  
  
"Maybe we should tell Denton," David suggested. "He could put an ad or something in The Sun for us."  
  
"Yeah," I said, brightening slightly at his suggestion. "Good idea, Davey. I'll take Les and Race and keep looking, and you can go tell Denton now. The faster this gets in the papes, the better. We'll meet back at Tibby's in," I paused to check my pocket watch, "two hours."  
  
Two hours later, Racetrack, Les, and I dragged ourselves into Tibby's, breathless after trekking around Manhattan, shouting for the lost newsie. David was already sitting at a table, talking with Brian Denton.  
  
"Hello, Jack," Denton greeted me, giving a small wave. He was hunched over a pad of paper, pen in hand. "Can you describe Mouse for me?" he asked.  
  
"Sure," I said. "Short, skinny, dark hair, dark eyes, real quiet."  
  
"All right," Denton said, furiously scribbling on his pad of paper. "And when was he lost?"  
  
"About 10:00 this morning," Racetrack answered. "I just turned around for two seconds, and he was gone."  
  
"Okay." Denton finished writing and placed the pen and paper back in the pocket of his suit jacket. "I can guarantee that this'll be in the paper by tomorrow morning. Good luck finding him."  
  
A/N: Only one chapter to go! Review, review, review! 


	4. Chapter Four

* This chapter is dedicated to Sapphy. *   
  
Chapter Four  
  
One week later, despite Denton's good luck wishes and the notice in the paper, we had yet to find Mouse. Everyday, we alternated hawking headlines with asking passerby if they had seen a small, five-year-old boy wandering the streets. Their answers were always negative, yet they often bought a paper out of pity for our cause. Improved sales, however, could not lift our spirits. Although Mouse had only spent one night in our humble lodging house, we had adopted him as a younger brother of sorts, someone to tease and teach and watch grow and learn. A pall seemed to fall over the lodge, dampening our normally high spirits. We had expected the new member in our ranks to stay for years, not disappear after a single night.  
  
Early one morning, David and I were hawking headlines, letting Les dart through the crowd, using his "sickly child" act to trick unsuspecting customers into buying. I usually gave him a few papes, and he spent five or ten minutes working the crowd, so I was surprised when he ran back after only a minute or two.  
  
"Wow, kid, did you sell all those already?" I asked, laughing at Les's breathless appearance.  
  
"No, I saw Mouse!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Are you sure?" David asked, skeptical of his little brother's proclamation.  
  
"Uh-huh!" Les affirmed. "He was with some real rich lady in a blue dress, and he was all dressed up in a fancy suit, but it was Mouse."  
  
"Did you see which way they went?" I asked. Les nodded, pointing down the street toward the wealthiest section of town. "All right, let's go," I said, grabbing Les's arm and dragging him through the crowded city streets. "Go tell the others!" I shouted back to David, who nodded and took off in the opposite direction, spreading the word to the rest of the newsies. In less than an hour, all of the newsies in Manhattan and most of the newsies in Brooklyn would be on the lookout for an affluent lady in a blue dress and a little boy wearing a suit.  
  
Meanwhile, Les and I were scouring the streets of Manhattan's most prosperous district, hoping to find Mouse and his new guardian before they returned home.  
  
"There he is!" Les told me, tugging at my sleeve and pointing ahead. Sure enough, a middle-aged lady in a cerulean dress was standing on the roadside, clutching the hand of a short, well-dressed boy.  
  
I walked up to them, pulling a newspaper off the top of my stack. "Hello, ma'am, would you like to buy a paper?" Before she could answer, I crouched in front of the little boy, lifting his cap up slightly so that I could see his eyes. 'Your name wouldn't happen to be Mouse, would it?" I asked.  
  
The little boy's eyes grew big, and he gaped up at me. He tugged his hand free of the lady's grasp and wrapped both arms around my waist in a furious embrace. I was shocked by this exuberant demonstration of affection, but before I could say anything, the lady spoke.  
  
"Michael, what are you doing?" she asked, clearly shocked at the little boy's behavior.  
  
"Excuse me, ma'am, is this your child?" I wondered, trying to be polite and stand up straight, although it was difficult with Mouse clinging to me.  
  
"Well, no, I suppose not," she replied stiffly. "I plan on adopting him."  
  
"You didn't happen to find him on the street selling papers, did you?"  
  
"Yes, but that's no life for a little boy," she admonished. Mouse seemed oblivious to our discussion; he made no response to any of the lady's comments.  
  
"Well, we kind of miss having him around," I remarked.  
  
"You mean he has a family?" she asked, surprised.  
  
This question, for some reason, stunned me, and I hesitated before answering. With Ma dead and my father in the pen, I suppose I had always considered the newsies to be my family, although I had never actually called them that before. "Yeah," I answered finally, faltering at first, but then growing surer, "yeah. He does have a family.  
  
The lady still seemed uncertain. "Well, I suppose I can't very well keep him, then," she said. I wasn't sure, but she seemed disappointed to lose Mouse. She, like the newsies, had developed a bond with Mouse, enjoying his quiet courage and loyalty.  
  
"Would you like him to visit you, ma'am?" I asked, sensing that, despite her extravagant gown, her life might be lacking in the love and family that we newsies had come to take for granted.  
  
"Yes," she replied, her face brightening slightly at the thought of seeing "Michael" once more. "I live in that house," she added, pointing to a large white house about a bock away. "Visit anytime. And," she continued, her voice softening with concern, "if he ever needs anything, please---come ask me."  
  
"Of course, "" I agreed. "Mouse, ya think you should say good-bye to this nice lady?"  
  
Mouse pulled away from me slightly and looked up at the lady. He raised his hand in a wave, smiling timidly. The lady leaned down and gave him a hurried kiss on the cheek, then stood and faced me again.   
  
"Well, I hope to see you again soon," she said, "and take good care of him for me. Good-bye, Michael." With these words, she walked away, blending into the vibrant Manhattan crowds.  
  
Les scampered over to us as soon as the lady was gone. "What happened, Jack?"  
  
I hushed him and bent down to talk to Mouse. "So, Mouse, are you ready to be a newsie again?" I asked.  
  
The grin that lit up his face could only mean one thing.  
  
To Sapphy: The Mousey has been found, and he's all yours now...enjoy!  
  
Review, review, review! 


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